Deducing Pygmalion
by tepid sponge bath
Summary: All John wants is a flat somewhere, and Sherlock has made a bet that he can teach anyone the science of deduction even if he will never let emotion in his life. With a little bit of luck, things will get interesting on the street where they live.
1. All I Want is a Flat Somewhere

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this. Nor do I own or profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Note: **Written for this prompt on the _Sherlock_ kink meme:

_i want crossover Sherlock/My fair lady.__  
__Sherlock is grumpy scientist/professor whatever of 9or just grumpy because of being Sherlock, hehe) and John is guy who somehow became his assistant or student and he has to study and once again suffer from insults of his intellect.__  
__And Mycroft is the one who Sherlock made a bet with.___

_S/J, no genderswap pls._

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Act I: All I Want is a Flat Somewhere**

John H. Watson was back in London. He was glad to back, back _home_ he told himself, away from the bombs and the awful food and the frightful sanitation. But he was back home with nothing to his name but a small pension, a surreptitiously acquired Browning L9A1, an alcoholic sister he was avoiding like the plague, and PTSD. And a therapist for the PTSD who insisted that he blog about things to make everything better.

Oh, yes, he also had a laptop. On which to blog. About nothing.

Things were not looking very bright for him at this point in life. So he supposed he would be forgiven by any deity of his choice for being less than chipper when he met Mike Stamford in the park that afternoon. He tried his best to be friendly, though, because it was the decent thing to do, and he _had_ been on good terms with Mike when they were at Bart's together.

"I heard you were somewhere getting shot at," Mike had said after identifying himself. "What happened to you?"

"I got shot." John's answer had been succinct and designed _not_ to be an opening for long reminisces of the swell times they'd had together in med school.

Nevertheless, here he was, seated on a park bench, having coffee with Mike. He had to admit that he missed human company.

"Still at Bart's then?" he asked, actually genuinely curious.

"Yes - teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be." Mike grinned. "God I hate them. What about you, staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"Well, it seems like it. I'd like to _stay_ in town actually, find a decent place, somewhere nice - you wouldn't believe the place I'm staying at now," said John. "Damned expensive, though, living in London. I suppose it's the price to pay for it never being dull in town. And my therapist recommends a nice, quiet summer by the sea. Still...

"_All I want_," he sighed, "_is a flat somewhere..._

_...far away from the cold night air_

- and he remembered the single, sad, stiff chair he had in his current rooms -

_"With one_ enormous _chair__  
__Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?"_

A positively dreamy look began to creep upon his face.

_"Lots of jam there for me to eat__  
__Indoor plumbing and regular heat"_

- his current landlord couldn't be persuaded to do anything about his leaky sink or the dreadful state of the loo or even the fact that the heating was shot while it was the coldest winter in years -

_"Warm face, warm hands, warm feet__  
__Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?"_

"Well, actually -" began Mike, but John cut him off.

_"Oh, so loverly sitting abso-bloomin'-lutely still__  
__I'd not budge my damn leg 'til spring__  
__Propped up on the windowsill._

"But, John, you see -"

_"Someone's head resting on my knee,__  
__Warm and tender as she can be_  
- and not a nurse, I don't mean another bloody nurse -  
_Who takes good care of me__  
__Oh, wouldn't...it...be...loverly...?"_

With a wistful sigh, John slipped out of his visions of taking a nice girl back to a nice flat in central London, and sank back onto the bench from which he had risen in a fit of emphatic passion. Stamford handed him back his cup of coffee.

"But," he said gloomily, "I can't afford London on an army pension."

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Mike grinned at him, trying to lighten things up. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson you knew." It came out sharper than John had intended, and he unconsciously shifted his shoulder, felt the ache and the tenseness that were souvenirs of enemy fire.

"Can't Harry help?"

"As if that was going to happen." Harry was more likely to show up asking for a drink. Or money with which to buy a drink, on account of her having lost her wallet in the last pub.

"Well, I was trying to suggest that maybe you could get a flatshare or something."

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" John wasn't expecting a good answer to that.

Mike surprised him by laughing, as if there was a grand joke going on that only he, Mike Stamford, knew of.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," said Stamford.

John Watson found himself keenly interested. "Who was the first?"


	2. Why Can't the British?

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this. Nor do I own or profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Note: **Credit to fairest1 of Livejournal for the third stanza! Which had me stuck for a very long time! Thank you!

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Act II: Why Can't the British (Teach Their Children How to Think)?**

John went back to St. Bart's with Mike Stamford to meet the other man looking for a flatmate. It was, he reflected, a little like impulsively agreeing to being set up for a blind date that could potentially last for several months on the outside, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do. At least he was moving forward and so on, as Ella would put it. She ought to be proud.

"So what's he like?" he asked Mike as they walked, going slowly because of his limp.

"You'll see," said Mike. "Um. I don't mind telling you, you'll probably find him a bit…strange."

"Strange?"

"Well, there's this thing he does. I mean, he's nice enough when he wants to be, but he can be unnerving, if you know what I mean."

John didn't know what he meant. But as Mike continued to be vague on the subject, he stopped questioning him, and started preparing to be surprised. Or appalled. Or whatever the appropriate reaction would be on meeting someone about whom Mike had just said 'Don't blame me if you don't like him."

They found him in one of the labs, doing something with a pipette and a Petri dish. John didn't take notice of him immediately, though. He looked bemusedly around the lab. He knew that technology was racing to get to places where people hadn't known it would arrive at in the first place, but somehow he had never thought of Bart's catching up with things. It was frozen in his memory as the place he'd known when he was a student, and it boggled him that it had actually grown up and changed while he was away.

"Bit different from my day," he said to Mike.

"Oh, you have no idea."

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" asked the man, without looking up from what he was doing. He was, John noted, wearing an impeccable suit, curly-haired, and he looked to be about 12. He also wasn't wearing gloves. "There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry," said Mike, making a bit of a show of checking his pockets, "it's in my coat."

"Here, use mine." John was fundamentally a nice person, because being nice cost him nothing (a good thing, seeing as he was practically broke), and he was sensible enough about it so that people didn't make a doormat out of him. And despite the evolutionary advantage of niceness being subject to heavy scientific debate, it was decidedly advantageous to be nice to someone who just might be paying half your rent.

"Oh. Thank you." He stood to take the phone John was offering, and Mike introduced John as an old friend of his as the man reached for the phone.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, sliding the mobile open.

"Sorry?" What was that? Where the war was more pointless? Which had a larger geographical area? Where those long-haired hounds came from? A breakfast choice? Where John had been on his military tour? While some choices were more unlikely than others, it seemed highly improbable that he could be asking where exactly John had spent time getting shot at when nobody had said anything yet about his being in the army.

"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Well. So apparently he was asking about John's military career. It was the only thing that made sense, really, even if John couldn't see how he could have known. "Afghanistan. How – how did you know?"

The man wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste. "I didn't know. I _saw_. Really now," he said,

"_And this is what the British population_

_Calls an elementary education_

_Our educators should be taken out and hung_

_For their cold-blooded disregard for human thought"_

John expected Mike to be offended, seeing as he _was_ a teacher, but his old classmate simply examined a rack of tubes in a disinterested way. It was as though he was used to outbursts like this one.

"_See them down in Scotland Yard," _continued the prospective flatmate, waving a hand in the appropriate direction.

"'_Solving crimes' but thick as lard_

'_Detecting' any way they like_

_Stupid, every one of them_

_Just like this one."_

He gestured to John this time, with the hand holding the phone.

"Excuse me?" John blinked. He had just been called stupid by a complete stranger. He would have been angry if he truly believed that anyone could be so rude.

"Oh, don't worry about it, you all are.

"_Why can't the British teach their children how to think?_

_This sad mutton-headed state by now should be antique_

_If I thought, sir, as you did, instead of the way I do_

_Why, I might be limping sadly too_

"Is it that hard

_To _observe_ and not just _see _with the speed of summer lightning?_

_Or to be able to reason backwards, which would be particularly enlight'ning?_

_To read in credit card slips and receipts the events from A to zed…_

_It doesn't matter what you do, actually, as long as you can _deduce_ properly._

"_Why can't the British learn to_

_To set a good example for people whose thought processes are far from very clear?_

_To hear ordinary people reason brings me close to tears_

_There even are places where logic completely disappears!_

_Well, in America they haven't used it for years."_

John was prepared to admit that he agreed with that rather funny, perhaps because he had spent a little time on that part of the North American continent during his gap year and had never quite understood what was going on while he was there. (He freely admitted, however, that it could have been the alcohol.)

"_Why can't the British teach their children how to think?_

_The doctors learn their medicine_

_And lawyers have their law_

_Yet to neglect deduction_

_Seems a fundamental flaw!_

"_Use proper logic_

_You're regarded as a freak_

_Why can't the British,_

_Why _can't _the British_

Learn_ to _think_?"_

He turned on his heel, and handed the phone back to John, smiling his thanks. His thumbs had been working frantically all throughout his little spiel, and apparently he was quite done with his message.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked.


	3. NonMusical Interlude: Phone Calls

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this. Nor do I own or profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Non-musical Interlude: Phone Calls**

"Mike, I really don't know. He called me stupid, and an idiot – not in so many words – and he's frankly _mental_. No, it's not that I _don't_ like him, it's not that – he's fascinating really, God, that trick he did with the phone – are you _sure_ you didn't tell him about me? – but, well, I don't know if living with somebody like that – yes, I'm still going to check out the flat. It couldn't hurt. Right. Listen, I'll get back to you, I need to phone someone before office hours end. Say hi to the missus for me. Bye."

_Dialing_.

_Ringing. An answer_.

"Hello. This is John H. Watson. Yes, the doctor, glad you remember me. I'm calling about my pension, I'm still waiting for last month's-"

_Stunned silence._

"What do you mean 'we lost our mailing list and mice got into our computers'? Look, I hate to sound…money-mongering – greedy, yes, whatever…but I _need_ the money. For rent. Food. _Living_. What do you mean there's nothing you can do? Fuck that. Sorry. No, I'm not sorry, I meant that. Sorry. Sorry that I meant that. How long do you think I'll have to wait?"

_Silence in which a towering rage is reached._

"WHAT THE _HELL_ DO YOU MEAN 'INDEFINITELY'?"


	4. I Will Never Let Emotion in My Life

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this. Nor do I own or profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Act III: An Ordinary Man (Let Emotion in Your Life)**

The Holmes brothers sat facing each other in the small sitting room of 221B Baker Street. An uneasy silence had settled in the room, and one got the sense that the prevention of the next World War depended entirely on its not being broken. The skull on the mantelpiece looked uncomfortable. Even the tea and fairy cakes the landlady ("Not your housekeeper") had set out for them looked like they wished they could be elsewhere.

"When will you stop playing your little games, Sherlock?" said Mycroft finally. "It's absurd. Little criminals, little killers. Do you really think it makes a difference?"

"It keeps me occupied." Sherlock glared at his brother over the tips of his steepled fingers. "And you know I'm after bigger fish."

A lesser man would have rolled his eyes. Mycroft merely pressed his lips together. "_Moriarty._" The contempt practically dripped off the word. "I'm nearly starting to believe that he's the product of your wishful thinking – an excuse, Sherlock, for you to carry on with this 'consulting detective' business of yours. If it's crime fighting that you want to do, I can give you the Met-"

"I've really got all of New Scotland Yard that I'm prepared to handle, thank you very much. You needn't gift wrap the rest of it to send to me at Christmas."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Acknowledged. Appreciated. Unnecessary."

And there was silence again as Mycroft shifted his arm (as if to reach for one of the tea cakes) and Sherlock's lips curled into the slightest suggestion of a sneer (as if to say "_Your _weight_, Mycroft, I thought you were watching it_.").

"You're only making a fuss because it's me," said Sherlock, opening the second salvo of verbal sparring.

"Of course I'm worried because it's _you._ You're my brother."

"I'd have thought that you of all people would refrain from stating the obvious. No, what I meant, Mycroft, is that you have an abject sense of the _waste_ of what I'm doing. A mind like mine, you think, shouldn't be wasted on trivialities like a missing cat or the murder of a salesman, or other garden-variety crimes."

"Yes, and it _shouldn't_. You have a gift, Sherlock, and a heritage, and to squander it as you do is disgustingly irresponsible."

"You're wrong. Oh, I was born ridiculously smart – we both were – and I doubt there is anyone who measures up, but you cruelly underestimate the abilities of the rest of the population."

"_You_ say that." Mycroft was incredulous. "_You_ think the 'rest of the population' consists of stupid sheep."

"Most of them _are_ stupid sheep. Utterly dim, utterly hopeless. But there are, I'm sure, people out there who are only like that for want of proper education, proper training."

"I know. The public education system keeps me up at night, when I don't have to think about the Far East. I don't see your point, Sherlock."

"My point is that it's no waste to let me use my mind as I like. Mycroft, the real tragedy is for those people who never _learn_ to think, despite the fact that they'd be adept at it given the chance. So instead of hounding me as if I was letting the world down, why don't you use your considerable resources to train somebody up for whatever role you have in mind, and leave – me – alone?"

"Don't sulk, it was barely tolerable when you were four, and it's positively unbecoming now. And you know very well that no-one can do what you do."

"I bet you anything that I could pick a man off the street, and within six months of rigorous practical training have him using deduction to tell what you ate for breakfast from the color of your socks. Incidentally, was the extra marmalade really wise? I thought you were on a diet."

Mycroft ignored that dig, and resettled his fingers on the handle of his black umbrella. "It wouldn't work, Sherlock."

"That's true. But someone could come close."

"You're upsetting Mummy, you know."

"I don't have to listen to this." Sherlock left his seat so abruptly that he might have been spring-driven and stalked to stare out of the window.

Mycroft plowed on anyway. "You haven't talked to her in months."

"I email!"

"'Dear Mum, Still breathing – S.H.' is your standard message, I believe. She worries about you."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"_I_ worry about you. There's no reason for you to be living like a dog in a wretched little flat above a store like this, much less for you to be getting a flatshare with" – Mycroft consulted a small black notebook – this John H. Watson. He blogged about you last night, did you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Man with a life like his, I'd expect so. It's probably the longest thing on his blog yet. Your _point_, Mycroft?"

"I've already said it. You don't have to live like this. Mummy wishes you'd settle down-"

"I'll settle down when I'm old, decrepit, crippled and senile, thank you very much."

"Settle down and find a nice girl, were her words. Or a nice boy, if that's what you'd prefer. Mummy says she wouldn't mind."

"I notice you haven't done that."

"I have my work."

"And I have mine!" Sherlock whipped around to glare balefully at his brother. "Even if it isn't running the British government. You can tell her, Mycroft, that I'm an ordinary man-"

Mycroft did roll his eyes at that.

"_An ordinary man_," repeated Sherlock, "_who desires nothing more than an ordinary chance_

_To live exactly as he likes and do precisely what he wants_

_An above-average man am I, of some eccentric whim_

_Who likes to live his life, yes, with some strife _

_But doing whatever he thinks is best for him_

_Well…maybe not so ordinary a man…_

But _let emotion in your life!_

_And your serenity is through!"_

"Girlfriends." Sherlock's mouth twisted around the word in distaste. "Or boyfriends for that matter."  
"_They won't stop calling you on the phone_

_Never give you a moment alone_

_And insist on the enthralling fun of overhauling you._

"_Let emotion in your life_

_And you're up against a wall!_

_They'll make plans and when they find_

"_You have something else in mind_

_And they'll give you Hell while you fail to get anything done at all!_

_You want to think of crimes or murders_

_They only want to talk of _love

_Take them to a lab or crime scene _

_And they'll throw up and refuse to put on their latex gloves!_

"_Let emotion in your life_

_And you invite eternal strife!_

_Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands—_

_I'd be equally as willing to watch Anderson go stripping_

_Than to ever let emotion in my life!"_

"_I'm a quiet-living man,_

_Who prefers to spend the evening in the silence of the morgue_

_Who likes an atmosphere as restful as well-stocked laborat'ry_

_A pensive man am I, of scientific joys_

_Who likes to contemplate, meditate_

_Far from humanity's mad inhuman noise_

_A quiet-living man…_

_But!_

_Let emotion in your life_

_And your sabbatical is through!_

_Let the others who like sex_

_Tie the knot around their necks_

_I'd prefer a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition-"_

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, eh?"

"…_Than to ever let emotion in my life,_" finished Sherlock. He turned slowly, caught in mid-gesture, to find John Watson standing in the doorway, his grin turning sheepish as he looked from one Holmes to the other, hoping, Sherlock could tell from the very slight tilt forward at the waist, that one of them would get his little joke (Sherlock didn't, God knew if Mycroft did).

"Sorry, I couldn't resist that," he said finally. "Mrs. – ah – Hudson let me in. She told me to go straight on upstairs. I'm not interrupting anything, am I, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock smiled at the doctor. It was friendly enough, though if John were being completely honest, he'd have to say that it was just a bit intimidating. "Doctor John Watson, my brother Mycroft," he said, and Mycroft acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod – the barest inclination of his head – and an appraising look. "He was just leaving. Take a fairy cake for the road, Mycroft, just one shouldn't hurt."

"Don't rush out on my account," said John. "Look, Mr. Holmes – Sherlock – I won't be long. I only dropped by to tell you that I can't go through with the flatshare. I'm sorry. There's some trouble with my pension that I don't rightly understand – that nobody rightly understands from what I gather – and I don't think I could keep up my end of the rent."

"Oh." Sherlock glared accusingly at his brother. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

"You can't blame everything on me," said Mycroft blandly.

"He's the British government," Sherlock told John by way of explanation.

"I hold a minor position."

"Please. You run it when you're not busy being the CIA or Interpol."

"It's a nice place though." John cut in, keenly aware of the barbs in the conversation and quite desperate to clear the air until he got out of there. "Very nice. I don't suppose," he added in a wistful sort of joke, "that you could see your way to letting me stay on until I can pay you back?" And he laughed to show he didn't mean it.

Sherlock looked at him as if he was seeing the doctor for the first time. "No," he said, and the word was slow and drawn out.

"Didn't think so." John smiled in what he hoped was a good-natured way. It _had_ been a mad request to start with. "I'll be off—"

"I have a better proposal for you."

John stopped in mid-step. "Sorry?"

"Sherlock, _no_," said Mycroft warningly.

"_Yes_." The man approached John with quick, energetic steps – he practically bounced – and came worryingly close to violating all Western standards of personal space as he leaned in, eyes bright with excitement. "What would you say if I said that I'd let you stay here for six months, free of charge, on the condition that you agree to learn the science of deduction and its application to the greatest extent of your abilities?"

"The science of deduction? Like, like on your website?"

"Ah, so you've seen it. What did you think?"

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. That stuff?"

"_Yes._"

"Can you actually do that?"

"And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone. Mycroft, where are you going? This is just getting interesting."

"Why would I be _interested_ in another of your little games, Sherlock?"

"Because you're subsidizing this one."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because if I fail to teach him how to think and observe properly at the end of six months, I promise that I'll leave off being a consulting detective and do whatever inane patriotic work you want to set me to." Sherlock made a face. "For a year. Not forever."

"Five years."

"Three."

"Done. And if John Watson can successfully solve a case on his own at the end of those six months, you will agree that I've proved that ordinary people can be trained up to do what I can, and you will back off and leave me be."

The look Mycroft gave John weighed him, measured him, slung him in the balance and found him wanting. "Oh, I doubt that."

"Well, will you?"

"I think I will, Sherlock."

"And you?" This was enthusiastic, and to John.

"Well, I – I -" John didn't really have to think about it. "I don't have anything better to do," he ended up saying, more than a little lost and clinging quite firmly to the thought that he was going to have somewhere to stay for the next half-year to make sure that it was real.

"Splendid. Mrs. Hudson!" he called to the landlady who was coming up the stairs. "Doctor Watson will be lodging here as well."

"That's nice, dear," she said, giving John a small smile. "There's another bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

John found himself opening and closing is mouth like a fish, searching for a way to refute that politely, while Mrs. Hudson went about the flat tutting about the mess Sherlock had made and asking about the serial suicides that the media had been making so much of.

Sherlock shot Mycroft a grin, clearly a challenge. 'The game is on."


	5. With a Little Bit of Luck: Prelude

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this. Nor do I own or profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Act IV-A: With a Little Bit of Luck**

Harry Watson was, in a word, drunk. Not quite as drunk as she'd like yet, and that was because she'd lost her wallet somewhere. Again. Or maybe she'd left it at home. But that was all right because she knew this part of town, it was near where John was holed up. So she could just pop over and ask him to lend her a tenner or something, just to tide her over until she got her wallet back. Just as soon as she got up again. That was a plan. A _good _plan. Yup.

But the universe, it seemed, wasn't in favor of it.

John wasn't answering his doorbell, and she knew better than to try and reach him by phone, so Harry stood outside his building, stamping in the cold, going back up the steps every once in a while to press the doorbell again for the look of the thing, and waited for him to come home.

It was taking an unconscionably long time. She was starting to decide that John had probably gotten lucky somewhere and was probably not coming home tonight when the door opened and a woman stepped out carrying a plastic bag of something clearly destined for the bins.

"'Scuse me," said Harry, walking up to her, "do you know John – John Watson? Only I've been trying to get a-hold of him but can't. I'm his sister. Do you know if he's in?"

The woman looked at her dubiously. "Would that be John up on the third floor? 'Cause he's moved out."

"_Moved out?_" This was an unexpected development. Harry felt herself teeter over in alcohol-aided surprise, and put an arm out to steady herself.

"Just yesterday. Came over with a posh-looking bloke, cleared his place out, gave the landlord the rest of his rent, and left."

"Just yesterday?"

"Yeah. I saw it 'cause I was telling Dora across the hall off for letting that cat of hers get into the bins again. They were arguing too, about John's jumpers. Posh was saying that John wouldn't be needing no jumpers no more, not where they were going."

"No jumpers?" It wasn't good, Harry knew, that she seemed to have been reduced to a human echo, but she couldn't help herself.

"Mhm, no jumpers. You really John's sister?"

"Yeah, of course I am. I'm just not around much, that's all."

"Okay, okay, I was just _asking_. You get all sorts around here, if you know what I mean." The woman hefted her plastic bag meditatively. "All sorts. Funny though," she said, looking at Harry with perhaps a trifle wistfully. "I never figured John for a queer."

That made it into a personal vendetta for Harry, over and above her needing to get home (and maybe have another drink) somehow. Her brother, she knew for a fact, had shagged women on three continents (and that was actually four if you counted India as a continent in itself and not as an overlarge appendage of Asia), and that he might have turned gay _without letting her know_ was an affront on so many levels. She got the address from the woman, tried and failed to borrow money off of her for fare, and tried and succeeded to hail a taxi, promising herself that she'd pay up once she'd finished her business at 221B Baker Street. With a little bit of luck, she would.


	6. With a Little Bit of Luck!

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't make any money from this. Similarly, I neither own nor profit in any way from anything to do with _My Fair Lady._

**Note: **I will make this make sense. Eventually.

**Deducing Pygmalion**

**Act IV-B: With a Little Bit of Luck**

The front door opened when Harry Watson tried the knob (a disgraceful thing in this day and age, leaving the door unlocked, though it was a _nice_ neighborhood, to be sure), so she let herself in, crept inside, saw the doors to 221A and 221C, and, by process of elimination, decided to creep up the stairs, calling softly for John.

He didn't answer. There were any number of things that could be preventing him from doing so at this time of night, and Harry's highly active imagination outdid itself as it provided several colorful alternatives.

None of them were right, though. All she found at the top of the stairs was the open door to a sitting room that had a single occupant lying with his eyes closed on the sofa, who was decidedly _not_ John. He was so still that she wondered if he might be dead, but it looked like he was breathing, so that was okay.

"Excuse me," she said, rapping her knuckles on the door frame before going all the way in (she'd been taught to knock before entering a room, yes she had). "_Excuse me,_" Harry repeated, enunciating as precisely as she could. "I'm looking for John Watson."

The man opened his eyes, sat up, and fixed her with a look that was singularly unnerving. "What? Isn't he here?"

"I don't know. Is he?"

He sniffed, rather theatrically, she thought. "I thought he'd be back by now. I sent him on an errand to St. Pancras station. He's certainly taking his time. Will you wait for him, Harry, or should I just let him know that you dropped by?"

Harry's jaw dropped. "Look here, how'd you know my name?"

"Oh, for God's sake. As if it wasn't obvious. Woman, slightly older, _very_ familiar with John, enough to feel entitled to go barging into someone else's flat in the middle of the night. You _might_ have been an old girlfriend, but then there's the family resemblance. That tells me you're related, and the phone you gave him tells me your name and that you're his sister. It also tells me about your drinking habits, so the whiff of alcohol about you is a dead giveaway. How's Clara doing?"

Harry took a breath, and counted unsteadily to twelve (ten didn't cut it, and she repeated eight or nine or something). "That is none of your business, mister." She sat down on one of the chairs at the desk in the middle of the room. "And I'll wait here, thank you very much. So John's out running errands for you, is he?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

"Well, that's John. Very obliging, except if you want a phone call every once in a while." She took a sharp look at the man, saw that the sleeve of his expensive-looking shirt (_Posh_, the girl at John's old apartment had called him) was rolled up, and her eyes went wide at the sight of the three nicotine patches he had on his forearm. Jesus. "So. Um. How long has this been going on?"

"How long has what been going on?"

"You know." Harry waved her hands about vaguely, trying to depict the situation. "You two. Can't have been for long, I don't think."

"We met three days ago."

"Jesus. And now you're living together, and he's running your errands and everything. Should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"If he comes back with what I sent him for, maybe."

"_Jesus _on a _bicycle_ with a _ukulele_." Harry sagged in her seat. "And a firecracker. I think I need a drink. Have you got anything?"

Again there was the exaggerated sniff. "I really don't think you need any more."

"'s what _you_ think," said Harry, making light of it. "I got a different opinion."

"Clearly."

"Oh, yes," she said, "_The Lord above made liquor for temptation_

_To see if man could turn away from sin_

_The Lord above made liquor for temptation_

_But with a little bit of luck, with a little bit of luck_

I was born a girl

_So when temptation comes, I give right in."_

And she grinned broadly, as if she had scored an important point. The look on Posh's face said he didn't agree, so she went on.

"_Oh, I could walk the straight and narrow_

_But with a little bit of luck I run amok!"_

The man pressed his lips together in the barest attempt to conceal his annoyance. "Look, you're obviously not here on just a social call. What is it you want?"

"I just want to check up on my little brother, that's all. I haven't heard from him for weeks, and his blog is so depressing it makes me want to walk out a window, and suddenly I hear that he's started living with some bloke, and he's never even mentioned you!"

"What more than that?"

"What more than _that_? Lord love me, he ought to have told _me_ if he decided on something like that! I'd be wanting to hear it, I'd be willing to hear it, I'd be _waiting_ to hear it! Me, of all people!

"_The gentle sex _– that's us, mister – _was made for man to marry_

_And share his home, if you do it by the book_

_The gentle sex was made for man to marry_

_But with a little bit of luck, with a little bit of luck_

_Man's free to choose to what sex he'll get hooked!_

"Unless marriage isn't your thing, of course. Some people don't like it, but it makes things all neat and tidy and official in my opinion. But it's all fine."

"I know it's fine." Posh had gotten up, and was looking out of the window that overlooked the road. "You're here for taxi fare. Maybe you've lost your wallet, maybe you've left it at home, either way you need someone to pay the cabbie for you. He's still waiting outside."

"Hey, when did I ever say anything about money?"

"That has to be why you're here." And he spun on his heel as an apparently unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Unless, God forbid, you need somewhere to spend the night?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't _dream_ of disturbing you two—"

"Is that John yet, Sherlock?" A motherly-looking woman peeked in at the door, and her face fell a little when she spotted Harry. "Oh. Hello, dear." And then she rounded on the man like a gentle hurricane. "It's disgraceful, the way you treat him. Keeping him up all hours of the night like that. It's a miracle he can still stay on his feet. The poor man can barely walk as it is."

Posh – Sherlock? – rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mrs. Hudson, he's a soldier. He's had worse. Why don't you go along and finish your evening soother?"

Mrs. Hudson left, tutting in a way that was mixed parts affection and exasperation. Sherlock watched her go before turning back to Harry. He looked frankly alarmed at the expression she had on. "What are you grinning about?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just, you know, keeping John up at all hours of the night. Good for you. _Good_ for you. I know what that's like. Wonderful, isn't it, when you're starting out? I remember when the neighbors used to complain about me and Clara." She leered at him meaningfully.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you know,

_They're always throwing goodness at you_

_But with a little bit of luck, a girl can duck!"_

Harry beamed at him. "And shoes too, sometimes. They also pound on the wall and shout at you. But don't mind them, carry on as you like, that's what I say." She would have held forth about the rights of men – and women – to be as loud as they bloody well liked, but there was a clatter on the stairs, and then there was John standing in the doorway. He looked tired, and harried, and thoroughly pissed off.

"Sherlock, I have had enough, I was there for hours, and there was no trace of a cook's luggage from South America, and if there was, I don't bloody care anymore, the security people looked ready to throw me out because it was just getting so embarrassing for everyone."

"It doesn't matter," said Sherlock smoothly. "You'll try again tomorrow."

"The devil I will-" John broke off when he caught sight of his sister. "Harry, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Hi, John, it's nice to see you, too. I was just at your old flat, you didn't tell me you were going to move."

"Yeah, sorry, I've been" – Harry caught the look he shot at Sherlock – "busy."

"And to think I gave you my phone, and you don't even text about a little thing like where I can find you. What if you needed help, John? How would I find out, the evening news?"

"Please don't start, Harry. I was going to, I promise." He went into the sitting room, unzipping his jacket as he did. "You've been drinking again, haven't you? And that's your taxi waiting out there?"

Harry nodded, trying to look appropriately pitiful and contrite. She thought she heard Sherlock muttering that at least the evening wasn't a total waste.

"And you need me to pay for it." John shook his head.

"You don't need to. I can walk from here."

"Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't let you walk home in that state, even if you didn't live on the other side of town." He sighed resignedly as he led her out onto the landing. "How much do you need?"

"Just twenty pounds'll see me home."

"No, no it won't, not if you came from my old place." John fished about in his wallet. "Here. And be careful out there."

"Ha!" she said gleefully, snatching the fifty-pound note from him.

"_A girl was made to help support her brother_

_Which is the right and proper thing to do_

_A girl was made to help support her brother_

_But with a little bit of luck, with a little bit of luck_

_He'll go out and end up supporting you!_

"'Course, I don't mean it like that. Thanks, John, you're an angel. Your boyfriend, though, I'm not so sure about him, but if it makes you happy, what the hey. Call me, okay?"

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"_With a little bit of bloomin' luck!_" Harry wasn't listening. She was waltzing down the stairs to her cab, whistling a merry tune, and happy that her brother had finally decided to settle down.


End file.
